


Con Moto

by HandsAcrossTheSea



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bottom Dean, Come Sharing, Dirty Talk, M/M, Swesson, Top Sam, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 10:17:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6325108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HandsAcrossTheSea/pseuds/HandsAcrossTheSea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best distractions have green eyes and freckles and are named Dean.  Set in the same universe as Kings of The Field.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Con Moto

**Author's Note:**

> You know, I've been writing Wincest porn for so long now that I kind of wonder if I can do it in my sleep. To be honest, no one really reads mine anymore so I may just start doing random things in them to see if anyone pays attention/cares. Oh well, you know the deal here. (My only reason for writing this was because I still spend a lot of time watching porn like Sean Cody and Corbin Fisher - thus college boys are EXTREMELY important to me.)

            Sibelius crashes again, and Sam’s grunt of surprise is even louder than the last one.  It’s the third time this evening, and he’s no closer to his orchestration project being finished than he was when he started before sundown.

            Frustration makes his t-shirt feel too tight and his gym shorts stick to his legs with sweat.  His legs are asleep where he’s been sitting Indian style in the middle of his bed, not having moved that whole time.  He reaches for his bottle of blue Gatorade, only to find it empty.  Cursing to himself, he throws it at the trash can across the room, misses, and listens to the indignant plastic clatter as it rolls towards the door.

            It’s been an aggravating evening.

            He flops back on the bed and listens to sheets of music crinkle under his arm.  Chopin’s book of Polonaises are cool under his left forearm, opened to one titled “Heroic”, the subject of Sam’s current trial.  For his midterm in Advanced Arranging, he has to set a piano piece for wind quintet – which is proving itself to be no easy task.  Fuck Chopin right up the ass – Sam’s never liked him but it was either that or Rachmaninov.  He’s starting to think that just maybe going with the Russian would have been easier, no matter the great cascades of notes he would have had to have set for something as incongruous as bassoon.

            Music school sure as hell isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

            Sure he could have worked on this before tonight.  He could be with Dean right now, partying with the football team at Alpha Sigma Alpha’s house and having himself a really good time, getting drunk and sweaty and handsy with his one and only – except he’s in the empty house he shares with three other guys not including Dean, listening to the autumn wind hum around the eaves of the second story and his own breath because he chose to be lazy for once in his life.  Too sure of his own abilities to get this done quickly, he’d been – but between his giant stack of leisure reading, long runs, and snogging Dean, he’d realized too late that he had screwed up.

            He sits back up and mashes the keys for the task manager.  Sibelius gets cold stopped and Sam glares smugly at the screen, daring that to mess up.  His teachers had told him that this right here was the best program to use, that he’d never have any trouble and so on – bullshit.  Complete and utter bullshit.

            Sam re-opens the program and dares it to freeze again, unable to lament lost work because no work has been done.  Muscle memory more than focus on the screen calls up the instruments he needs and he stares at the five blank staves, four treble clefs and one bass.  It’s not like anyone is going to actually perform this, anyway.

            Thinking that maybe using the electronic keyboard might ease some of his pain in putting the notes in, he scoots off the bed and winces, feeling coming back to his legs slowly.  He goes over to his desk chair and extracts the keyboard from under a pile of Dean’s jeans; why on _earth_  Dean’s clothes are in his space is a question Sam long ago stopped trying to answer.

            He’s plugged in on both ends, the music propped to the side on a stack of pillows and with the keyboard in his lap, he begins to pick out the first few bars for the flute and oboe.  He leans in and concentrates, having become proficient enough to focus on just the music to his left, catching the motion of the notes speckling black across the screen out of the corner of his eye.

            Twenty bars in he realizes that the music is no longer putting itself on the staves and he cautiously looks over –

            Driver update needed, restart required.

            Outside, someone walking by the house looks up and hears Sam’s yell of complete and utter agony.

            Sam buries his face in his hands and groans, cursing Chopin, whomever created this infernal software, and Dr. Kaling for giving him this aggravating project.  He closes the laptop, not so gently disconnects the keyboard and has to restrain himself from shoving the whole mess to the floor in an angry huff.  He puts it all on his desk instead and dejectedly flops back onto the bed, burying his face in Dean’s pillow to scream his troubles away.

            He’s almost hoarse when his phone buzzes on the night stand.

            “Hello?”  He doesn’t even look at the number, just answers.

            “ _Hey, baby, you busy?”_

Dean’s voice is drawly, beautiful music to his ears.  “I’m supposed to be, but… what’s up?”

            “ _I left my phone at the house – can you bring it to me?”_ Dean doesn’t sound drunk – but not exactly sober either.  Sam looks at the screen and sees Jeff’s number.

            Rolling over onto his back, Sam slides his hand down his pants and gropes himself just because, unsticking his balls from his leg.  “Sure thing – any idea where you left it?”

            “ _Uh…_ ”

            Sam rolls his eyes and smiles.  “I’ll look for it.  Anything else I can do for you?”

            It’s sort of hard to tell if Dean’s joking when he asks “ _what are you wearing?”_

            “Dean, you’re in public.”  Sam isn’t really in the mood for this anyway – but there’s no harm in indulding Dean just a little.  “And just shorts and a t-shirt.”

            “ _The kind of shorts that show off your dick or those awful cargo shorts.”_

”They aren’t awful, they’re comfy – and they’re the gray ones.  You know, the ones that I can’t wear in public-           “

            “ _Because they show your dick off,  got it.”_ Dean sounds incredibly pleased with himself and Sam sits up and starts to survey the room, taking his hand out of his pants.  “ _You should still be in that when you bring my phone.”_

“Sorry, but that exhibit is for one person’s eyes only.”  Sam drops his voice all low and warm, even though there’s no one to hear him.  ”I’ll be over before long.”

            “ _Can you stay when you get here?”_

Sam looks at the pile of work and sighs.  “I wish I could, babe, but… next time, I swear.”

            “ _I’m gonna bring home a bottle of something to do shots off of you whether you’re busy or not.”_

Thoughts of Dean’s booze-warm lips make Sam’s cock start to chub up.  “Can I get that in writing?”

            “ _Bring my phone and you can have it in French, too.”_

Sam laughs and runs his fingers through his hair.  “I’ll be there soon.”

            _“See you in a few, baby boy.”_

Dean’s phone is in the grocery bag he brought the beer home in.

___

            Central Georgia isn’t exactly cold this time of year but after the sun goes down, Sam feels better on a psychological level if he’s wearing long pants.  The school that he and Dean attend sits farther north than Deacon County, so the temperature drops a little earlier in the year.  With his shorts swapped out for a pair of jeans he’s had since tenth grade and a red flannel shirt over his arms, he makes his way to the Alpha house.  It’s a three quarter mile walk and Sam can see the last couple glimmers of sunset coloring the sky to the west, dulcet reds coloring the dusk close to purple.

            The breeze is still strong and it carries towards him the sound of revelry, country music mixed with happy voices and the smell of bodies all pressed together.  Dean’s somewhere in those sounds and scents, and they make Sam walk a little faster, Dean’s iPhone safe in his back left pocket.

            There are a couple of frat bros at the door to keep an eye on who’s going and coming and they recognize Sam instantly; he’s been seen with Dean enough times at this house that they know he’s cool.  (And they put Sam’s music fraternity parties to shame, too – but Sam can’t say he’s exactly mad about that.)

            Tim McGraw’s voice gets louder as Sam steps through the front door and he’s pulled into a mass of bodies, a hundred conversations vying to be heard over the blast of music and the smell of twenty different liquors becoming a cocktail of sensation that Sam has to hold himself against.  He wants to drink it all in in the most literal of ways but he only has one mission right now – locate Dean.

            Someone presses a cold beer into his hand and puts his arm around his shoulders and Sam turns to the only other person he’s ever had to truly look up to – Jeff Strasser, lead defense for the football team and a friend so loyal to Dean that he’s considered another brother. (Jeff’s respect had been hard to win there for a while – finding out Dean and Sam were boyfriends is still a hard pill to swallow for some people.)

            That’s in the past, and Sam feels as safe with Jeff as he does with Dean.

            “You’re just in time, Sam – follow me.”

            Sam has to shout over the music.  “Time for what?”

            Sam enters the main room of the first floor, a large den furnished with couches that should have long ago been trashed and half-faded pin ups of scantily clad women – truly, a frat house of the first order.  In the middle Sam spots Dean, holding Corbin Dunham’s left leg while the head cheerleader – Misty Rose Giudetta – holds the other.  Corbin’s doing a keg stand and judging by the way he’s spilling more than drinking, this isn’t his first go of the evening.

            _Drink, drink, drink, drink!_

Dean chants a little louder than everyone else, watching Corbin.  Mary spots Sam and smiles, flashing those perfect teeth that make Sam wonder what his chances would be were he not already so hopelessly gone for Dean.

            _Drink, drink, drink drink!_

Sam waits patiently and Corbin finally lets himself tip to the floor – it catches Dean by surprise so that it’s far less graceful than Corbin would probably like and he sort of falls down, to the applause and slurred cheering of everyone in the room of course.

            Dean finally sees him and his flushed cheeks stretch with a grin and people clear a path so that their star quarterback can get to Sam.  Sam meets him halfway and they collide, Dean hugging him tight and slapping his back – it’s a bro hug but Sam will take it.  He’s still weird about full on PDA in front of his front bros.

            “Back porch.”

            Dean’s hand doesn’t leave the small of his back the whole way outside and Sam’s skin feels pleasantly tight because of it.

            The back porch isn’t quite as crowded and one corner of it, for the moment, is unoccupied.  Sam’s ushered to the rail and Dean stands close enough that their boots are touching, putting his hands on Sam’s hips and looking into his eyes.

            “Figured you’d be a little bit longer – Corbin was about to finish his fourth for the night.”  Dean’s gaze is only a little glassy eyed – which means he’s only been encouraging people to drink, not do so much himself.

            “And you aren’t nearly as sloshed as I thought you’d be.”

            “Well… I called Dad earlier today and…”  Dean need not say more – John Winchester seems to spend a little too much time with the bottle nowadays. 

            “Yeah.”  Sam hates to see Dean’s smile fade.  “You’re awfully sweaty.”

            Dean uses the hem of his shirt to wipe the moisture from his brow and Sam’s presented with a magnificent view of all the bruises and hickeys on his belly – all of which Sam put there.  Sam feels his mouth go dry and were it not for everyone else there, Sam would have Dean on his back in an instant.

            “Hey, up here Sammy.”

            Sam’s grinning as he holds Dean’s eyes with his own.  “Can’t say that looking at Chopin is nearly as exciting as your body.”

            “Perv.”  Dean returns Sam’s smile and leans in, foreheads touching.  “Oh – can I have my phone?”

            “Back left pocket.”

            Dean’s hand snakes around and plunges into Sam’s waistband first, past the loosish hold of his belt and he spends a glorious five seconds groping his ass, his focus never leaving Sam’s face.  Sam doesn’t move, just lets Dean feel him up before he grabs his phone and puts it in his own poeket.

            “I really should get back to…” Dean’s voice trails off and fuck all if he’s not beautiful, the spikes of his hair and his freckles standing out in relief to his pink-tinged skin.  His Guns ‘N Roses t-shirt is stuck fast to his body with sweat and his biceps are barely held by his sleeves – Sam reaches up and puts his hands on Dean’s arms, tracing his fingers up the veins before he loops them around Dean’s neck.

            “Me too – how long before you’ll be home?”

            Dean doesn’t answer.

            His lips touch Sam’s before Sam realizes what’s going on, his heart slowing a little, the swirl of the party fading into the background.  Dean tastes warm and yeasty, beer still lingering on his tongue.  Sam opens his mouth and Dean welcomes himself in, pushing deep and making the hairs on the back of stand up.  Dean’s always kissed him like this, like Sam’s the only thing that has ever truly mattered to him.  His eyes close and he pulls Dean as close as he can to him, their bodies gravitating towards each other. 

            Sam gets a foot between Dean’s and he spreads his legs, instinct making Dean rub himself against Sam’s thigh; even through the fabric of their jeans Sam can tell Dean’s at least semi-hard – and he’s not the only one.  Sam’s tempted to reach into Dean’s pants and return the favor of groping him – only for Jeff to tap Dean on the shoulder and break the kiss.

            “Romeo, you’ve got an audience.”

            Sam sees twenty pairs of eyes on them, drinks paused halfway to mouths and faces of not only bewilderment but satisfaction.  Sam and Dean are an open secret but few have ever actually _seen_ it.

            Dean plays it off cool as a cucumber.

            “I mean, don’t _you_ want to kiss him?  Look at the guy, he’s as cute as can be.”

            Sam dips his head and leans it against Dean’s shoulder.  “I don’t think you’re helping.”

            “Easy, baby boy, they won’t do anything.”  Dean pats him on the shoulder and pulls Sam so that he’s completely upright, holding his hands.

            “Um… I’ll be around eventually.  Might be late but I’m sleeping anywhere else, okay?”

            Dean seals his promise with another quick kiss and he’s gone, melding back into the crowd, leaving Sam with that tight, fluttery feeling in his chest for the hundred thousandth time.

___

            Sam’s still thinking about that kiss when he sits back down to resume work, shirtless and back in his shorts.  It’s still cool outside but Dean’s got him feeling hot and bothered to the point of making it difficult to do anything – save for wanting Dean.  He makes it four bars before Sibelius gives up on him again and Sam finally relents, frowning at the frozen screen before he sets the whole mess aside and turns the TV on, his mind half on Dean and half on House of Cards.

            Two glasses of water, leftover chicken wings, and three hours later, Sam’s asleep with the television watching him.

            He dreams of Chopin, sitting at one of the Steinways in the music building, fingers on the keyboard while Sam tries to match him, struggling to keep up with the diminutive Pole.  Sam guesses that deftness simply isn’t in his Georgia boy blood and for some reason he ends up sitting on the piano to watch Chopin’s fingers dance across the keyboard.

            Sam certainly isn’t expecting for Chopin to grab his face and kiss him, only to realize that that’s actually happening.  Sam’s eyes open slowly to Dean, sitting on his stomach and coaxing him out of his slumber with a tender kiss.

            Dean’s eyes are huge and green in the lamp light, his body as naked as can be.  “I’ve been trying to wake you up for five minutes.”

            Sam smells Irish Spring and clean breath – which almost certainly means Dean wants more than just a kiss.  “Sorry, I was… Chopin was there.”

            “That so?”  Dean kisses his neck and Sam finally shakes the last few cobwebs out, stealing a glance at the clock on the night stand – it’s a little past three in the morning.  “I know you have a thing for dead piano players, but do you have time for living, breathing football stars?”

            Sam snorts a laugh and scents Dean’s neck.  “Star might be an exaggeration.”

            “Hey, that’s not very smart thing for a guy who’s about to get head to say.”

            “Huh?”

            Dean slides Sam’s shorts off and he barely has time to acclimate himself before Dean’s mouth is swallowing the head of his cock.  Sam groans as his vision goes all fuzzy, his fingers making their way into the damp strands of Dean’s hair.  Dean uses both hands to hold Sam still, gripping his hips, fingers matched perfectly to his hipbones.  Sam keeps his hand on Dean’s head while he runs his fingers through his hair with the left.  Dean opens wider and swallows more of Sam’s big dick, mouth stuffed full. 

            Really, Sam ought to be used to being deepthroated by Dean like this by now, except he’s not because it won’t ever stop being the most insanely hot thing.  Dean wastes no motion, doesn’t flinch at the task before him.  Sam tries to fuck up into his throat but Dean’s got him locked down – he’s not going anywhere.

            Dean’s tongue swirls around the shaft, lapping up and tasting the precome that’s been leaking more or less since Dean kissed him on the porch earlier; Sam had chosen to simply ignore it.   He finally lets go of his left hip to fondle Sam’s balls, tugging, rolling, and cupping, making Sam as big and hard as he can.  Sam moans every time Dean goes a little too far and makes them hurt a little, knowing full well that Dean won’t actually do anything deliberately – but it still feels really fucking good anyway.

            His mouth is a mess by the time he pulls off of Sam’s cock, lips swollen red and spit dripping down his chin.  “Wanted to do that since you came to the house earlier.”  Dean scoots up and reaches for the lube stashed under the pillow.  “Wanted everyone to watch me suck your big fucking cock Sammy.” 

            The lube opens and Sam feels it trickle down his cock, Dean’s hands behind his back while he slicks not only himself up but Sam as well.  “Think they would have let me play had they seen that?”

            Sam growls, thinking about all of those eyes on Dean – _his_ Dean.   “Wouldn’t have let you, baby.  Don’t want to share your skills – or you – with anyone else.”  He smacks his cock against Dean’s hole, Dean’s own hands spreading his ass.  “You know how jealous I get.”

            “Fuckin’ right I do.”  Dean leans down and Sam pulls him into a rough kiss, all teeth and tongue.  Dean’s already opened himself up and right as Sam’s about to bite his bottom lip again Dean pushes himself back on Sam’s cock, crying out from going way too fast on him.  Sam tries to help ease him along but Dean persists, not stopping until he’s jammed full and Sam’s whole body feels like it’s throbbing.

            Sam puts his hands on Dean’s hips and makes him get halfway up on his knees.  “This ass is _mine,_ Dean.  Just mine.”  Sam fucks up into him and Dean has to brace himself against Sam’s shoulders, not caring in the least if anyone else in the house should hear him.

            “Fucking shit, Sammy…”  Dean’s eyes are screwed shut and his cock is hard as a rock, bobbing and moving with the motion of Sam slamming into him.  Precome leaks out onto Sam’s belly, sticking to his treasure trail and abs.  “WOuldn’t… wouldn’t let anyone else t- touch me.”

            Sam goes even harder, his hands on Dean’s face.  “Get so fucking hard watching you play, Dean, knowing that you’re gonna want to be fucked after a game.  Fucking love it when you come to me and demand my cock, like you fucking deserve it.”  Sam licks into his mouth and fucking hell this is not the turn he was expecting this to take – but Dean started it.

            Dean has to grit his teeth as Sam nails him right in the prostate, his body hunched and bent so that Sam can claim even more of him.  “Damn right I do – do it all for you baby boy, want you to watch and see me.  Want you to get angry cause other guys touched me, felt me and just… fucking fuck, your _cock-”_

            Sam slows up and really lets Dean feel it, every fucking inch as he stretches Dean’s body open and lets the heat seep to him, both of them sweating from the intensity.  Sam sits up and pushes Dean flat on his back, his cock never pulling out.

            “Belongs only to you, Dean.”

            Sam rotates and swivels his hips, years of experience guiding him as he fucks the life out of Dean, sealed with a kiss that doesn’t end to swallow up each other’s moans.  Dean doesn’t have a hand on his dick, nothing but Sam’s thick cock to make him come.  Sam pushes, adjusts, feels that first contraction around his cock as Dean’s toes curl where his feet are practically on Sam’s shoulders. 

            They’re both close, and Sam can tell it’s going to knock them both out.

            Dean buries his face in Sam’s neck, hugging him tight.  “I’m…”

            “Me too, just… with me, Dean, wanna come _fuck_ -”

            Sam feels like he’s being cleaved in two,  Dean’s legs a vise grip on his body as they both come.  Hot, thick ropes of spunk land all over Dean’s chest and belly from his cock, his teeth sunk into Sam’s shoulder.

            Bodies quivering and sweat-slick, Sam pulls out and faceplants next to Dean on the bed.

            “Fuck.”  Dean’s  laying in a puddle of his own mess, Sam’s come leaking out onto the mattress  from his ass.

            “Give me twenty minutes, babe.”  Sam’s voice is muffled and Dean reaches over to push him onto his side.

            “Looks like you’ll need more than that – and if you were a true gentleman, you’d help clean this up.”

            Without batting an eye, Sam leans over and licks the come off of Dean’s body, hiding behind his hair so that Dean feels more than sees.  He holds Dean down between gathering it up and drips it back into his mouth, followed by a sloppy kiss every time he does it.  Dean’s hole is slick against his cock and Sam almost wants to fuck him again – almost.

            Dean makes the executive decision that they’re done by making Sam lay down so that he can put his head on his chest, fingers splayed so that it makes Sam’s hair stick to his pecs.

            “Sorry if that went a little overboard, by the way.”

            Sam kisses his temple and shivers as the cool air finally settles around them.  “Have I ever protested before?”

            “Well … not until I showed you that vibrating dildo.”

            “Dean, _no one_ should own something like that.”  It had been huge, gray, and resembled a crankshaft far more than it did a sex toy. 

            “You have no sense of adventure.”  Dean sounds self-satisfied and he yawns, obviously having no qualms about falling asleep with the taste of come in his mouth.

            Sam smiles and tries to shift them under the blankets.  “Not true – I’ve stuck with you all these years, haven’t I?”

            Dean’s only gesture of agreement is to pull Sam closer and leave him to ponder on it himself.

           

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone wants to actually set Chopin's Heroic Polonaise for woodwind quintet, do it. I'd pay money to hear it.


End file.
